


under an orange sun,

by gyeomtriever (yerims)



Category: GOT7
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Child!Yugyeom, Falling In Love, M/M, Single Parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:13:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24249349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yerims/pseuds/gyeomtriever
Summary: Once or twice, people don’t wait. Not patiently. Not with a polite smile, and an all-too-pleasantit’s okay, another time then.Sometimes they stand at your doorstep with soft sniffles. They ask to be let in. Your house is broken, the paint is chipping. But Jaebeom learns—you let them in anyway. You let them in, and nothing changes, the walls are still old, your son’s growing so fast, his little feet are jutting out of the bed, but it feels so different. Better.Just one more person.Or single dad!Jb falling in love with pretty neighbour Jinyoung, and Yugyeom is their no. 1 fan.
Relationships: Im Jaebum | JB/Park Jinyoung
Comments: 44
Kudos: 262
Collections: GOT7 Fic Bingo





	under an orange sun,

**Author's Note:**

> Bingo square: neighbours
> 
> so one week ago i couldn't write anything and i was all like *lamenting* 'i have fallen OUT OF LOVE with writing. i will never be able to write again' but i have stopped being dramatic and i have written something for u!!!! with a lot of love. extra extra love since we're in very strange, hard times.
> 
> in the meantime, i will deeply reflect on how it took me a year and nine (?) months to cross out my first bingo square

Familiarity is hard to explain.

Jaebeom has always known he was there. A flat away; ten steps. Walk straight, pass his door, where his son usually sits by, little legs outstretched on the floor, little ear pressed against the wood, curiously listening for new sounds, then it’s right there, on your left. The doors are all the same smoothed timber brown here, but Jaebeom imagines standing there would feel a world different from standing outside his.

Yet, Jaebeom has always known he was there. Some days he catches him leaving in a rush, tie slightly crooked, checkered pants coming up half an inch above his ankle, and Jaebeom wonders if he used to live with sisters.

If their eyes meet, a sweeping glance, sometimes, through the mirrored surface of the lifts, then—he smiles awkwardly, and Jaebeom returns one. If Yugyeom were with him, Yugyeom would wave at him like he’d known him his whole life, and the man would send a brighter smile back.

They’ve never spoken. Jaebeom doesn’t even know his name–but familiarity works like that… A familiar face, a familiar voice, the familiar curiosity when he sees his lights on past midnight, the familiarity of not knowing. Of just passing. Of distance—comfortably, tenderly, watchingly.

As for Yugyeom, he meets everyone for the first time and thinks they’re his best friend. He’s sweet and gentle to the world like that. Neither of them knows his name; but they’ve grown accustomed to his presence all around. In apartments like these, space is small, cramped. He is one flat away, but he is in their home, all the same.

Familiarity is warm. No one wants to break it.

They live like that for a while.

ᵔᴥᵔ

Once, he walks past Jaebeom trying to fix his bike.

There is no space in the flat—so Jaebeom has no choice but to struggle with the damned thing at the corridor. He chooses a Saturday morning to drag the junk out along with the toolbox and a growing boy.

Yugyeom always wakes early anyway, and naturally, Jaebeom, too. He doesn’t ride the bike that often except for the rare vacation mornings that he straps Yugyeom into the seat at the back and brings him on a ride around the neighbourhood. They don’t get time to do that much these days and Jaebeom worries Yugyeom will outgrow the seat soon. Kids just grow so fast.

Yugyeom toddles around, sticks his little fingers in whatever gaps he can. Jaebeom names the parts he knows, and shows him how to twist a hench and stops him from putting loose screws in his mouth.

Yugyeom gets restless fast; and Jaebeom gets frustrated. Sweatily, he opens a pack of milk biscuits for Yugyeom, then sits him at the TV. He goes back to work.

Yugyeom returns in five minutes. The bag of biscuits only half-full now; the sound of an advertisement jingle ringing from their old TV set. Yugyeom digs his chubby salivated fingers into the bag and pulls a piece out. He holds it out to Jaebeom, who opens his mouth obediently.

Yugyeom giggles. And Jaebeom must have been distracted—between trying to figure which knob to turn next and adoring his son’s silly crescent-eyed grin, he missed the jingle of keys, the push of the door next to his.

“Hello!” Yugyeom greets, and he waves happily. Jaebeom turns, ready to mouth an apology, but he is greeted with a surprised—and pleasant, very pleasant—smile.

“Hi,” the man says. He closes the door behind him. Jaebeom looks back at his bike.

The man has to tread sideways carefully past the bike and the tools sprawled about everywhere. Jaebeom grimaces and apologises hastily as he pulls them in—then the man stops halfway. He’s got one leg out, the other one still in between the bike and the paint-chipped wall.

“There—” he says, and he points to the top part of the wheel. “It’s torn a bit.”

Jaebeom stands to look.

“You could file it down,” he suggests.

Jaebeom nods dumbly.

He could have said, _ah, right,_ or, _why didn’t I see that!_ No words leave his lips. He’s flustered. And he never knew how to fix a bike.

Yugyeom does the speaking for him. Bless his little heart—even if his words are all the wrong ones.

“You fixed the bike!” he exclaims, and he looks at the man like he’s the actual tooth fairy. Jaebeom turns to bow to the man in gratitude—but Yugyeom keeps going, “appa was getting angry at the bike. But now you’ve fixed it. You made appa not angry anymore.”

Jaebeom blinks. The neighbour waddles out of the awkward position he was in—and he laughs a bit.

“Thank you,” Jaebeom hurriedly says, before Yugyeom can talk even more. He wasn’t even _that_ frustrated—how does Yugyeom pick up on these things, and why does he have to say them out loud?

“You’re welcome,” he just says. His voice is deep—not that Jaebeom hadn’t known that before. He overhears him on the phone some nights. The walls here are paper thin.

“Yugyeom-ah, say thank you,” Jaebeom lifts the kid, and wrangles a proper bow out of him. But before he can leave, Yugyeom grabs his wrist.

Jaebeom is ready to lambaste him—when—

“For you,” Yugyeom says, and he shoves the near-empty packet of biscuits to him. Jaebeom’s heart aches funnily. Embarrassed, he grabs Yugyeom, ready to lift him whole back into the flat—he’d mortified him enough for the morning—but the man bends to the boy’s level.

“Really?” he asks, and he opens his palms.

Yugyeom pours the remaining few biscuit balls into his hands. A piece falls onto the floor. Jaebeom rushes to get it before Yugyeom tries feeding it to the neighbour.

“Thank you for fixing our bike,” Yugyeom repeats.

“Your appa is going to fix it—I only pointed out what’s wrong,” he explains, though it means nothing to Yugyeom. "Thank you for the biscuits,” he adds.

He pops one piece into his mouth. Yugyeom grins happily.

Strangely, this, too, feels familiar.

ᵔᴥᵔ

The child beaming up at someone. Someone beaming down at the child.

Jaebeom imagines it. He thinks about his child looking up at another person like he’s his whole world. There will always be him—Jaebeom, appa—first. But a child’s heart has room for two. For someone like Yugyeom, who always had extra affection to spare, Jaebeom imagines there must be room for so much more.

He’s the only one left for Yugyeom. His one and only. His entire universe, all of the stars, even the burnt-out ones. Especially the burnt-out ones. Jaebeom is all of the things in Yugyeom’s life. The reason Yugyeom is; and here, and now. Jaebeom’s past, Jaebeom’s mistakes, Jaebeom’s blessings. All collided and exploded into a form of a sweet little boy.

Jaebeom is the reason Yugyeom can’t have more. The reason Yugyeom goes to the preschool by the block and wears uniform Jaebeom had scooped from the box of hand-me-downs. The reason Yugyeom sees his _halmeoni_ more than he sees Jaebeom. The reason for everything good, bad, and now.

Jaebeom has it memorised: the image of Yugyeom beaming up at someone. That someone beams back down at him.

It could be the shadow of a person lost. It could be the anticipation of a newcomer. A tease of it. A fleeting taste of a dream—the part you remember, and use to try to piece the rest, but it never comes back, so you use that block to rebuild the stories you’ve lost.

It doesn’t matter. Jaebeom already has the image memorised.

And for better or for worse, he gets greedy sometimes.

ᵔᴥᵔ

If the cat is missing, Jaebeom will lose his mind.

He prays that she is somewhere behind the couch again, but with each passing minute and “meow” from Yugyeom that _doesn’t_ summon the cat, Jaebeom panics.

He loves his cat very much.

So does Yugyeom, he remembers, seeing the increasingly grouchy child rub his eyes tiredly and call for the cat. It’s past his bedtime now. It’s Jaebeom’s fault; he’d forgotten to shut the door entirely. The stupid door—he should’ve gotten it fixed ages ago, too.

 _Stupid,_ he chides himself.

“Appa,” Yugyeom’s hand wriggles into his, “maybe she ran outside.”

“Maybe,” Jaebeom sighs. “How about you go to bed, Yugyeom-ah, and appa will look for her?”

“No,” Yugyeom shakes his head. “I’ll help appa look too.”

Jaebeom bites his lip. He might have to call someone over—but it’s so late, and Jaebeom doesn’t want to make Mark travel here from _Dongdaemun_ to help him look for his _cat_.

“Nora may come back,” Jaebeom suggests, “so how about you stay here in case she does—and if she does, you can make sure she doesn’t run away again.”

Yugyeom ponders, “how about you, appa?”

“I’ll check around. Outside. Downstairs. She couldn’t have gone far.”

“If I stay in, and you go out, we will find her, right?”

“Yes,” Jaebeom promises. He leads Yugyeom to the door and places Nora's bowl in his hand.

“You must stay here,” he instructs, “Nora knows how to come home. If she returns, she’ll want to see you. So you can’t run off, okay? Stay right here. Appa will be back soon.”

“Okay,” Yugyeom agrees. Jaebeom isn’t too worried about him—Yugyeom isn’t the type to wander much without Jaebeom next to him. He’d left him in the supermarket once and he found Yugyeom at the exact same spot—just sitting down, tired, but unmoving. Appa always comes back for him in his eyes.

Jaebeom rushes to press the lift.  
  


The cameras came up fruitless—they didn’t catch sight of Nora entering the lifts or sneaking down the stairs the whole evening. His door is shut when he returns, and Nora's bowl is there.

“Yugyeom?” He calls out in disbelief; a terrible surge of panic filling him.

“Shhh,” he hears. Ten steps away, turn left, Yugyeom is on the floor, pressing his ear against the neighbour’s timber door. Jaebeom sighs—in relief, vexation, who knows. “I hear Nora.”

Jaebeom squats tiredly outside his flat. He waits patiently for Yugyeom to finish—but the boy doesn’t budge. His little hands are pressed against the door. His brows pull in concentration, and his fingers twitch.

“Nora!” he shouts suddenly. Then he knocks on the door.

“Yugyeom—no—” Jaebeom rushes to the child.

Footfalls. On slippers—the hotel kinds. They drag. The light in the neighbour’s flat switches on.

His head pops out when the door opens. He looks around blearily, bespectacled, pajamed. Then his eyes fall on the boy at his feet. Yugyeom practically crawls past him into his flat.

“Nora!” He calls again. Jaebeom cannot see him anymore. He launches into apologies and bows and explanations of the missing cat. The man frowns, confused, then, Yugyeom emerges with the cat in hand.

“Oh,” the man breathes, “is that yours?”

“Nora!” Yugyeom repeats. “You found her!”

“Yeah,” he awkwardly scratches the back of his neck, “he snuck in and I didn’t know who he belonged to— _shit_ I’m sorry I should’ve asked around, you must have been worried,” he looks at them sheepishly.

“ _She_ ,” Yugyeom corrects. 

“ _Thank you for finding our cat_ ,” Jaebeom corrects.

“It’s fine,” the neighbour says. “And I’m sorry again… I gave her some chicken. I didn’t have cat food.”

“Please don’t be sorry,” Jaebeom rushes to say, “you’ve done us a huge favour. We thought she’d ran out of the building. And we’re sorry to disturb you so late at night. Thank you for looking out for her.”

“You’re good,” he smiles. Even tired, glossy eyes under thick-rimmed spectacles, his smile is pretty. Jaebeom watches him watch Yugyeom cradle the cat. All of their gazes are fond.

It is already past midnight, a Thursday night, in fact. Tomorrow morning the cycle repeats. Yugyeom has to go to preschool. Jaebeom will rush to pour _Froot Loops_ in one bowl, _Blue Buffalo_ in another, and catch the eight-thirty bus to work. Tonight, he stands outside a stranger’s flat, and it’s all silent, worn pyjamas, stolen hotel slippers, a purring cat, a boy purring back.

Distantly, it feels like family.

ᵔᴥᵔ

It is a few weeks later that Jaebeom sees him proper again.

He’d gone to take out the trash after putting the child to sleep. A Friday night. Quiet, timeless. Nights like this there is no rush—Yugyeom can afford to catch the 10 p.m. news with him, not because the kid likes the news, but because he wants an extra hour to snuggle close with his dad, and ask questions about pictures on TV he doesn’t understand.

Nights like these, Jaebeom don’t look at another mess and push it to the back of his mind to weigh on him for another few days. He can take another twenty minutes to pick up the toys, to file the papers, to open the letters, to return the call.

Nights like this he takes the trash out timelily, he doesn’t wait till the following morning.

When he shuffles eight steps down, he sees the lights from under the neighbour’s door still on. Eleven steps down, he hears talking. Short, staccato words. Quick, snappy breaths. Jaebeom is intruding on something he should not hear.

He makes it to the corner—and he sorts out the trash in silence, except for the soft echoes of anger from behind the door. He notes that Yugyeom is drinking too many cartons of _Nesquik_ , and himself, too many cans of _Milkis_. He takes his time—until all the sounds left are the crinkling of the trash against the thin plastic sheets.

A soft click. The door opens. Jaebeom turns to look.

The neighbour lingers for a bit. He’d hung up, he’s in another pair of soft latte pyjama pants. A white shirt. Messy hair. Frustrated. Jaebeom memorises this image, too. Imagines he’d pull out a stick, light it, smoke it. His brows will furrow the way Yugyeom’s does when he’s annoyed that his old book has a torn out page—and he’s never going to know what was there.

Jaebeom accidentally knocks into the recyclables. It makes a clanging sound.

“Oh—I hadn’t seen you—”

“I’m sorry—”

Jaebeom hurriedly finishes with the trash. He glances at the neighbour apologetically, then at his holed socks showing through the cheap slides he’d gotten at the flea market.

The neighbour just smiles and looks away.

It’s stifling here. Space is small, never enough. You’re all in your neighbour’s space—they’re all in yours. There is no choice but to make a home together. You and twelve other flats on this floor. You and twenty-seven other floors. The whole building of a family—a family you never meet, but you hear their fights, their intimacy, you feel their anger pulsating through the walls, feel their warmth wrapping around your home, the smell of morning toast wafting in, and you wish it were you.

“Are you okay?”

For a quick second, the man seems taken aback. That makes them both.

“I—yes,” the man nods, looking embarrassed. “It’s just,” he shrugs, “work and stuff. Family.”

Jaebeom nods. He gets it.

“I’m sorry if I was too loud,” he apologises. Sheepish, again. Jaebeom will have it memorised soon.

It’s stifling here. Jaebeom has a son thirteen steps away, turn left. Jaebeom is curious about someone else here.

“Wait here,” Jaebeom says, and he walks past him, back into his flat. The click of the gate, a peck on the son’s cheek, the slam of the fridge. Jaebeom returns with two cans of beer. The man looks at it—then at Jaebeom. His eyes glisten. Anticipation.

The walls are closing in on them.

Jaebeom slides down to the ground. Cracks a can open, and hands one over to the man. He is now twelve steps away from his son. Maybe three from the man. Two beers between them, and the corridor is silent.

“Was it your mom?” Jaebeom guesses, signalling to his phone.

“Mm,” he nods, “you know how they are. I’m twenty-five but she still goes at it like I’m eighteen.”

“Yeah,” Jaebeom agrees, “moms are like that.” Another sip. Jaebeom pulls his knees close to him. His holed socks stare right back at him.

“She cares about you, though,” he adds, “right?”

The man smiles. But this time, it is slightly forced, unnatural. They don’t reach his eyes. The type you give to your hairdresser after they finish with your hair. Even if it’s good, you never like it at the salon.

“Right,” he says. A sigh. “She does. She means well, actually. I wish I didn’t get so mad all the time.”

Jaebeom smiles—the ones where your lips thin, eyes dip, and it's meant to be comforting.

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” Another sip. Be polite. His can is near empty now; he pushes a finger into the centre of the logo and it dents with a loud crack. Nothing spills over.

“Or you both could pretend the conversation never happened in a week,” he jokes. The man laughs, his cheeks full, puffed. Another sip.

“Yeah. More likely that.”

The corridor goes silent again. The lights at the end flicker—they go out for three seconds, then come back on.

“Can I ask?”

The walls seem to diverge. From strict parallel lines, they start to twist and turn. Jaebeom thinks about his son twelve steps away.

“Yeah.”

“The child,” the man starts, but he doesn’t talk about Yugyeom condescendingly, disdainfully, like so many other people do. “I haven’t seen his mom around.”

“She doesn’t live here,” Jaebeom clarifies. “We’re not together anymore.”

The man nods, thoughtful.

“How old is he?”

“He’s turning three soon.”

The man looks delighted.

“He’s so friendly,” he says, and he speaks about Yugyeom with such kindness it warms Jaebeom. Not _he’s so smart for what he is,_ or _he’s doing okay for what he has._ Yugyeom is so good for being who he is.

“He… I’m not sure where he gets it from,” Jaebeom laughs a bit. “I’m sorry if he gets too much sometimes.”

“Never!” The man says, and he grins. Back with the smiley eyes. “I think he’s adorable. And I’m not usually too good with kids.”

“Well, luckily for you, Yugyeom is good with adults.”

“Yugyeom,” the man repeats. “That’s a nice name. He is a nice boy.”

Jaebeom smiles. The beers are empty now. The lights flicker again. Jaebeom’s back is starting to hurt from his crouched position, the concrete floor, the plaster walls. They’ve straightened back out—parallel, as he remembers, as they have always been.

Jaebeom forgets to bring his name home that night, but the smile, _oh, Jaebeom's new favourite thing,_ he keeps it, alright.

ᵔᴥᵔ

People say don’t get a son when you’re twenty-two.

Indulging is okay. Having fun is okay. Consequences are not.

Jaebeom hadn’t known what to do. He’d heard it all–abortion clinics, runaway moms, broken families. The girl goes to church. Jaebeom must have been the devil.

“Appa,” Yugyeom climbs into his bed one night, like he does many nights. Yugyeom doesn’t like to sleep alone, no matter where he goes. The boy presses his cheek against Jaebeom’s, and his head full of hair tickles Jaebeom’s eyes. “Do you have enough love?”

Jaebeom hums, dumfounded. Though he shouldn’t be; Yugyeom is always full of questions like these. _Are you enough happy,_ or, _did you dream of sweets last night?_ It’s the way Yugyeom checks on him. He wants to know that his father is well. For Yugyeom, Jaebeom tries.

“I get so much love from you,” Jaebeom says, “and _halmeoni_. And _harabeoji_.”

“...and Jackson _samchon_ , and Youngjae _samchon_ ,” Yugyeom lists, “and Bambammie, and Seokminnie, and Seungyounnie.”

Jaebeom huffs a laugh.

“Bambammie, Seokminnie and Seungyounnie are your friends, though, not mine.”

“But they love you too, appa,” Yugyeom says like he’s right. “Because they love me.”

“Alright,” Jaebeom nods. “I believe you.”

“But is it enough?” Yugyeom presses.

“I think it is,” Jaebeom says. “Do you think it is?”

Yugyeom nuzzles further into him, little nose pressed against his collarbone now. The room is dark, quiet, warm. These days, Jaebeom remembers to be thankful for the small things. That Yugyeom isn’t sick, that the heater hadn’t broken, that he managed to pay last month’s bills on time. He pulls the blanket higher, makes sure Yugyeom is wrapped, safe.

“I can give you more,” Yugyeom says, and Jaebeom knows his answer is ‘no’.

“I would like that,” Jaebeom whispers, “thank you, Yugyeom-ah.”

“You’re welcome,” he answers, and his voice has drifted into a light cloud. It floats gently between them, Jaebeom’s favourite sound.

People say don’t get a son when you’re twenty-two, but Jaebeom thinks Yugyeom is his favourite consequence. Even if he was unprepared. Especially if he was unprepared. 

He would tear the whole world into shreds if any harm ever came his way.

ᵔᴥᵔ

Jaebeom opens the bag, and Yugyeom fills it up.

There’s a Tupperware of kimchi. Two Tupperwares of rice. A Tupperware of _nori,_ sliced carrots, sliced boiled eggs. Bacon slices for the child. Pickled radish for the dad. A small jar of sesame oil

“Appa, my water,” Yugyeom reminds, and Jaebeom mentally curses that he’d forgotten to wash Yugyeom’s bottle. He fills it to the brim and hangs it around the child’s neck. It’s blue, and yellow, and red. Yugyeom grins and fumbles with the zip of the bag while Jaebeom fumbles with the strap of the bottle. Jaebeom’s mother had really over-prepared—the bag almost spills over.

But then again—what else do mothers and grandmothers do?

“Are we taking the bike?” Yugyeom asks. The sun is smiling at them today.

“Do you want to?” Jaebeom asks him back. He already knows what the answer will be.

Yugyeom laughs brightly.

Jaebeom moves the bike out; and Yugyeom follows right behind, water bottle swaying along with his uneven steps. The food is in the bike’s basket. Two helmets hang along by the handles.

While Jaebeom helps Yugyeom adjust his helmet, the elevator rings. Footsteps approaching. Jaebeom is fully focused on making sure Yugyeom’s helmet is snug and tight; Yugyeom jostles to turn to look at who’s coming.

“Good morning!” He greets, and Jaebeom tuts, scooping his face to face him again.

“We’re going on a picnic!” Yugyeom announces, and Jaebeom finally looks up to see who’s the unfortunate audience of Yugyeom’s endless ramble this time.

It’s the neighbour from ten steps down, turn left. The man Jaebeom drank beer with one night, slumped on the floor, against the wall, holed socks. He’d slept well that night.

“That’s nice,” the neighbour says, and his response is in earnest. He is dressed casually today—a solid blue sweater, tousled, curly hair, just the right amount of unkempt for Jaebeom to like. He carries a bag of McDonald's takeout in his hand. “I hope you have fun.”

“Do you want to join us?” Yugyeom asks, with hopeful eyes. Jaebeom startles.

“I don’t—” the neighbour starts.

“Yugyeom, he might be busy,” Jaebeom says. He looks at the neighbour apologetically.

“...Are you?” he asks, a beat later.

“I—” he looks at his takeout, and shrugs, “not really, honestly. But I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“You wouldn’t be,” Jaebeom hastens to assure, “it’s just the both of us... You could, if you'd like. We have too much food.”

“That’s right!” Yugyeom nods, and he pats the bag. “ _H_ _almeoni_ prepared gimbap for us!”

The neighbour hesitates.

“Only if you’d like, of course,” Jaebeom repeats, this time more pointedly at Yugyeom. “If you’d like to spend your day in, we understand.”

Yugyeom pouts.

The man laughs, and he reaches a hand for Yugyeom’s cheek, and smooths the pout away.

“Where will you be?” the neighbour asks. A spark of hope. Jaebeom feels it tingle in his bones.

“The central park,” Jaebeom whips out his phone, and shows the address to him. “It’s just fifteen minutes away.”

“You can have my seat,” Yugyeom suggests, pointing to the back of the bike, and the man laughs again. He ruffles Yugyeom’s hair and smiles at Jaebeom.

“Could you send me that?” he asks, gesturing to the address on Jaebeom's phone. “I’ll need to get changed first,” he pulls at his pyjama pants and smiles embarrassedly. “I’ll drive down.”

Jaebeom agrees immediately, even if he thinks the man looks great like that. Especially like that. Just the right amount of unkempt that Jaebeom _really_ likes.

“So you will come?” Yugyeom asks again. He holds up his pinkie finger.

“I will,” he promises, and Jaebeom doesn’t miss how his pinkie engulfs Yugyeom’s, like a blanket of safety. It makes for such a pretty picture. Jaebeom doesn’t mean to keep the image—but it paints itself in his mind. “I’ll come in a while. Will you wait for me?”

Yugyeom cheers and says of course he will.

Internally, Jaebeom does, too.

ᵔᴥᵔ

Isn’t it funny how the first time you meet, it’s your son who strikes up the first conversation?

Your son says hi first. Your son asks him out on the first date. Kinda. _Not a date_ , but pretty much a date. Your son was _there_ on the first date. On a checkered picnic mat, fingers clumsily rolling a _gimbap_ out of shape, getting pieces of _nori_ all over his face. Your son tells him he likes him a lot—before you get to.

Don’t get a son, they say, not when you’re twenty-two. Jaebeom would do it all over again.

Now he knows Jinyoung’s name. He likes his smile lines more. His silly blue sweater—it was dirty by the time they’d gotten back. Jaebeom had cycled. Yugyeom fell asleep in the back of Jinyoung’s car. They met up again in between their flats.

Five steps away from both. A sleeping boy transferred from one set of sturdy arms to another.

“Thank you for joining us today, Jinyoung-ssi,” Jaebeom says softly. Against his ear, Yugyeom gently snores. He really tired himself out playing by the swings.

“Thank you for having me,” Jinyoung says instead, then, a pause, and, “Jaebeom-ssi.”

The walls behind them listen. They watch, lovingly. They don’t threaten to choke them anymore.

Faintly, Jinyoung feels like a home awaiting.

ᵔᴥᵔ

Jaebeom used to dance, and he tells Yugyeom all about it. 

The underground club. Strobe lights. Some nights they switch off all the lights in their flat—then Jaebeom switches on the old tv, and they dance like that, illuminated by _P_ _ark Bo-Gum’s_ smile. Jaebeom is always cool in Yugyeom’s eyes. Even when he fails all his attempts to b-boy spin—knocks into the couch for the fifteenth time, accidentally sends Yugyeom falling on his butt once.

Yugyeom picks up all these things, though. He copies what Jaebeom says. He pretends to talk on the phone; he pretends to type on the computer. Nothing makes Jaebeom happier than when Yugyeom hums along to whatever old song he puts on. Yugyeom clapping along to the ramyeon advertisement jingle. Yugyeom toddling along to his hip hop music.

All of Jaebeom—it shows in Yugyeom.

Then comes the evening of the preschool showcase—it’s the last day of school before the winter break. They’d been practising the little dance for months. Each class had a small number to put up. Jaebeom had to switch shifts and reschedule evening classes to have been able to make it to see Yugyeom.

Then—finally, he does. There, on stage, Yugyeom shines. He’s somewhere at the back, tall, head full of hair, fluffy dog ears hanging over his head. It makes Jaebeom laugh. He captures a photo, then two, then three.

Another three for backstage. Another three when he’s strapped in the car seat at the back of _harabeoji’s_ old Toyota. Another three when they’re waiting for the lift. Yugyeom had changed out of the matching onesie by then but he’d kept the doggy-eared headband on. He likes them.

The adrenaline doesn’t really wear off the kid. Yugyeom is excited—it’s not everyday he gets to perform, it’s not every day he sees his dad at seven instead of nine. Just two more hours and it’s all Yugyeom wants.

“Appa,” he grins, “watch me!”

Jaebeom has the key in the door. He’s a twist away from home. Yugyeom hops around and spins. He’s flushed, cheeks tinted rose, skin glistening. His eyes twinkle the same way Jaebeom’s own ones used to when he danced.

Jaebeom smiles. He pulls the keys out instead of opening the door.

He can indulge him for another two minutes.

“Can you show me the dance another time?”

Yugyeom’s smile stretches even wider. 

“You’ll need to sing, appa! Or there will be no music.”

“Softly,” Jaebeom promises, “we don’t want to wake the neighbours up.”

Then Jaebeom hums the tune he remembers—it’s likely wrongly keyed, off-tuned, off-beat. Yugyeom doesn’t care one bit. He dances the choreography as well as his little body can, as well as he can coordinate his little chubby arms and legs. Jaebeom sits by the step at the foot of the door, keys in one hand, film camera in another, and Yugyeom dances.

“Did you like it?” Yugyeom asks. He already knows the answer.

“I did,” Jaebeom says. “And I think Jinyoung-ssi did too.”

Yugyeom whips his head around to see his favourite neighbour there—ten steps down, turn left. Jinyoung is leaning against his door, trash in one hand, a thumbs-up in another. He’d only taken his first step out; but he was glued the moment he saw them.

“Such a talented dancer, Yugyeom-ah,” Jinyoung says, and Yugyeom practically preens.

“Jinyoungie hyungnim!” Yugyeom shrieks—and Jaebeom chides him to tone it down. Yugyeom sprints to the said man who dumps the bag on the floor before picking up the boy.

“Hi,” Jaebeom gets up, ignoring his cracking protesting bones. “Yugyeom had a school showcase today.”

“I see,” Jinyoung smiles, and this time Jaebeom is sure it was for him first before it’s directed at Yugyeom. “Are you a dog?”

“Yes,” Yugyeom answers in all seriousness. “I’m Gyeom-triever!” he tells him.

“Ah,” Jinyoung nods, and Jaebeom laughs. “you’re Gyeom-triever today, huh? Well, I think appa _Beom-triever_ is very proud of you.”

Yugyeom howls in laughter.

“Beom-triever!” he parrots after Jinyoung, and he points to Jaebeom in glee.

Jaebeom looks at Jinyoung in utter betrayal; but he cannot stop his own laugh from bubbling past his throat. Loud, honest. Jinyoung grins at him, and Jaebeom feels every bit of affection he could possibly feel.

His son beaming up at someone.

Someone beaming back at him.

Jaebeom memorises this picture. He never wants to forget it.

“Let’s go, Yugyeom-ah,” Jaebeom coaxes the child back. “Jinyoung-ssi needs to take out the trash, then he needs to go to sleep. And you will too, mister,” he reminds, dreading how hard it will be to get Yugyeom to bed tonight.

“But I want to play with ‘nyeongie hyungnim,” Yugyeom insists. A pout. Hamster cheeks. Jinyoung presses on it with his thumb tenderly.

“If I put you back in Jinyoung-ssi’s arms,” Jaebeom tries, “he’ll put you in the trash, too, together with the rest.” He gestures at the bad on the floor. “Would you like that?” he tickles Yugyeom’s side.

“The trash monster will come for you,” Jinyoung plays along, raising a brow. “Would you like that?”

“No!” Yugyeom laughs, scrambling in Jaebeom’s grasp.

“Say goodnight, then,” Jaebeom asks. He puts Yugyeom down. The child reaches to take Jinyoung’s hand.

“Goodnight, Jinyoungie hyungnim,” comes the obedient reply. He holds Jinyoung’s hand for a moment. No milk biscuits, no words, just silence. Jinyoung lets him.

“Goodnight, Yugyeom-ah,” he smiles back, and it’s so tender—all soft, no hesitance. It makes Jaebeom melt, ever so slightly, ever so slowly.

“...and goodnight to you too, Jaebeom-ssi.”

ᵔᴥᵔ

The film keeps his memories.

The memories of the familiar, of the foreign, of all of Jaebeom’s days.

The days that burned oranged, the sun a father’s pat on your back. Strong, guiding warmth. Jaebeom lived his twenty-first year freely, in love, reckless. She was beautiful under any light.

When Yugyeom happened, they tried everything they could. They hadn’t even graduated. Yugyeom was born two weeks before their finals. That night, Jaebeom cried.

The film has it all written down. Jaebeom’s youth as he lived out—Jaebeom’s youth when it stopped. Jaebeom when he held Yugyeom for the first time. Yugyeom’s first day of preschool. Jaebeom sitting on Yugyeom’s tricycle. Yugyeom sitting on Jaebeom’s lap.

Jaebeom—when his smile thinned. When he lost weight. When his smile changed. When he fell out of love with life; then he fell in love with it again.

Two beer cans. Yugyeom laughing on the foot of the playground slide, an orange glow cast over his little face.

Jinyoung on the steps. Jinyoung in the car. Jinyoung sitting on the road in the middle of an open-air car park at two a.m. Two beer cans, dented in the middle, the red from the overhead traffic light shining down on his face. Yugyeom was in bed. Jaebeom took the photo that night, sitting right next to him, one palm pressed into the ridged tar, another hand on the film camera.

The film keeps his memories.

Slowly, the distant becomes the familiar. The familiarity of distance fizzles; it replaces with something much better.

Jinyoung becomes home.

ᵔᴥᵔ

Jaebeom doesn’t usually invite people to his house.

Space isn’t enough. It’s small, it’s cramped. Yugyeom’s toys are everywhere. Old teddy bears, books with torn out pages. Nora clawed the number ‘5’ button out of the TV remote control. Cat hair everywhere. Shreds of paper which could have been the child or the cat’s doing. Jaebeom doesn’t know anymore.

He thinks he’ll let people in when it’s neater. Tidier. When he has more to show.

Slowly but surely, Yugyeom grows.

Most of the time, people wait.

Once, Jinyoung knocks on the door, and he asks to be let in.

His eyes are red, his hair tousled, pyjama pants crumpled. Just the right amount of unkempt for Jaebeom to like. Just the right amount of sad for Jaebeom to feel.

“Oh, Jinyoung,” Jaebeom reaches out for his hand. “What happened?”

“It’s just—” he says, and his voice is cracked. “I had a really bad day.”

The weight of his words pulls at Jaebeom’s wrists. Jaebeom pulls Jinyoung in for a hug.

“Come in,” he says, and he invites Jinyoung in himself. Nora hears the noise and curls at their feet. The couch is worn, the half-broken remote wedged between seats, Yugyeom’s discarded headband lying on another. Neither of them spares any of it a second glance.

“Wanna talk about it?” Jaebeom asks. Jinyoung just hides his face in Jaebeom’s shoulder.

“It’s okay,” Jaebeom says instead. He doesn’t know what’s wrong. It could’ve been work, or his mom, or feeling. Anything. “I’m here,” he promises anyway.

Five steps away—the son is sleeping. The space is small here, cramped, and Jinyoung sits right next to Jaebeom. Curls right into him. Jaebeom’s arm wraps around Jinyoung, hand resting on his head, holding him close. The couch is torn up. He’ll have to get it changed sometime. Another time.

Once or twice, people don’t wait. Not patiently. Not with a polite smile, and an all-too-pleasant _it’s okay, another time then._

Sometimes they stand at your doorstep with soft sniffles. They ask to be let in. Your house is broken, the paint is chipping. But Jaebeom learns—you let them in anyway. You let them in, and nothing changes, the walls are still old, your son’s growing so fast, his little feet are jutting out of the bed, _but it feels so different._ Better. Just one more person.

They don’t talk about the crumbly TV set. They talk to each other instead.

ᵔᴥᵔ

The flowers are blue, yellow, and red.

Jaebeom doesn’t think they go particularly well with each other—too much, too bold. But Yugyeom had picked them out himself. They’re his favourite colours. And Yugyeom said, “Jinyoungie hyung will love them, because he loves me.”

“I believe you, Yugyeom-ah,” Jaebeom had replied. The stall-owner gave him a forced smile. Yugyeom doesn’t pick up on it. He holds the bouquet like they’re meant for him. It’s bigger than his face, and it makes Jaebeom laugh softly.

The trip back home is quiet—save for Yugyeom’s commentary on every dog he walks by. He thinks they’re all his friends. The world is his friend. How is Yugyeom so sweet?

Jaebeom counts the flowers, arranges the petals, rearranges them. Stops Yugyeom from shoving his little face into the bouquet after he ends up sneezing five times after his first try. Stops Yugyeom from trying to taste one. Stops himself from throwing it out in nervousness.

“Should I knock knock on Jinyoungie hyung’s door? Appa?” Yugyeom tugs on his pants when they reach outside their flat. Ten steps down, turn left. The walls are teasing, today. They stretch and bend as if daring him to go.

Jaebeom looks at the child, then shakes his head lightly.

“Can you wait here for me?” he asks.

“Of course!” Yugyeom agrees.

Jaebeom had always known he was there. A flat away; ten steps. Walk straight, pass his door, where his son stands today, wide-eyed, bright-eyed, waiting for his dad to bring his favourite neighbour flowers, then bring his favourite neighbour home. It’s right there, on your left. 

The doors are all the same smoothed timber brown here, but Jaebeom imagines standing there would feel quite the same as standing outside his. Familiarity. Orange and gold. Warmth.

Jaebeom sniffs the flowers again. All sweet, all friendly, no rush.

With a deep breath, he takes the first step forward.

**Fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> time to stare at my neighbour's door dreamily......   
>  hahaha thank u for reading 🖤 comments are always appreciated!


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